The Nature of Things
by BanishedOne
Summary: Matthew gets a mysterious friend request from a boy that vanished from his life more than ten years ago. After years of hating that boy, he is finally allowed to know the real reasons for Alfred's disappearance.
1. Origin

::

1; The Nature of Origin

* * *

::

It was a curious event; a tiny red box marked '1' hovered over the friend request icon in the top left corner of the page. Matthew didn't usually get random adds unless it was by mistake. He didn't think much of it. It probably was just somebody looking for another Matthew Bonnefoy who happened to find him instead.

He clicked the icon. The friend request menu dropped down to reveal a picture of a blonde-haired man with a bright, smiling face and eyes the color of the sky on a warm, summer day. _Alfred Jones_ read the name next to his icon.

It couldn't be _that_ Alfred. Matthew instructed himself inside his head, 'don't you dare flip out.' His inner voice was clear, distinct, and always so very demanding. His inner voice was everything his outward voice wasn't. Still, a rebellious heart wasn't listening to instruction. It was beating steadily faster, though his head was trying to grasp at logic.

His name was _Alfred Kirkland_, not Alfred Jones.

Matthew clicked the name that was both familiar and unfamiliar, venturing to the profile of the person who had sent him this random friend request. He was uncertain what he was expecting, because he didn't know anything about Alfred Kirkland anymore, and so he had no idea how he would decipher whether this Alfred Jones person was one in the same or not.

Luckily enough, some of Alfred Jones's photo albums were public.

Click; Matthew navigated to this mysterious stranger's photo albums. Click; Matthew selected the 'profile pictures' album. Click; after looking over a few photo thumbnails, Matthew selected one.

His heart jumped even quicker in his chest.

His mind ventured back in time for an instant, until he found himself sitting on a wooden bridge over a still body of water. There was a fishing pole in his tiny hands and he was watching a bob float atop the murky surface that stretched out before him. He turned to look at the boy by his side; the boy there was looking back at him, hair lightened to the color of wheat fields, glinting gold in the sunlight, skin equally kissed to a warm, golden hue with the slightest dusting of tiny freckles over the bridge of his nose, and eyes like the summer sky. Matthew could never forget.

It _was_ him.

Matthew didn't waste any time returning to the home page and accepting the friend request. He wondered if Alfred was still online, or if he should message him. He didn't know what to say, or if Alfred would answer quickly, or if perhaps he should just allow Alfred to message him first, since the other male had obviously taken the initiative to locate Matthew.

Biting his lip, Matthew once again found himself reflecting; all those days he spent waiting at the window for the mail carrier, dashing out to check the box for letters, only to find that his messages had gone unanswered, that Alfred Kirkland never wrote him back.

Yes, he'd let Alfred message him first.

Matthew convinced himself that he wouldn't be that lonely, hopeful boy any longer. He wouldn't allow his spirits to be broken by the boy he used to know. He wouldn't wait for Alfred's messages with baited breath, because the past was behind him and he wasn't a naive child any longer.

And then a red box enclosing a white '1' popped up overtop of the messages icon, and Matthew jumped in nervous excitement, rushing to read the received message, all while mentally chastising himself. Okay- he was just really curious why Alfred had finally tracked him down and what he had to say.

'Hey! I really hope you're the right Matthew! Sorry if you're not, cuz' if you're not, this is probably really weird and random! But hey, your dad's name is Francis, right? If you're the right Matthew, our dads used to.. um, know each other.'

Was this guy kidding? That was Matthew's initial thought. He seriously couldn't believe this and while he didn't want to react in a hasty manner, he couldn't help the response that almost felt to type itself.

'Our Dad's knew each other? Our Dad's were romantically involved. The four of us lived together for five years.'

Matthew stabbed the enter button to send his message. It made him feel like he was sending his feelings of indignation along with it. He waited, sitting back in his desk chair and crossing his arms over his chest. It was only a few minutes before he received a response.

'Yeah, I know. I messaged a few other Matthew Bonnefoys before you, though, and said something about our dads being together, and one guy sent me back this cute message that was something like 'haha, dude, your Dad is a fag, lol!', so yeah.. anyway, glad I finally found you.'

With a sigh, Matthew's head fell into his palm. He knew he shouldn't have been so hasty. He'd been hoping that one day he'd have a chance to speak to Alfred again, and now that he had gotten what he wished for, he was trying his best to screw it up.

'Oh. Yeah, sorry. I didn't think of that. What a jerk. Um.. Anyway, how are you?'

:: ::

Matthew wasn't sure what to think when Alfred didn't respond after a day and then two; had his aggressive response given Alfred the notion that he wasn't worth talking to? Whether it had or not, it left Matthew in nervous regret, awaiting a message from Alfred all over again, sure that it would never come, just as Alfred's letter never showed up in Matthew's mailbox after their fathers separated.

And then Matthew was proven wrong.

'Hey again! Sorry I took so long to get back to you, but you asked how I was and I realized it would be a kinda drawn out story. It's funny because even after all the time it took to find you, I only considered at the moment you asked me how I was that I hadn't even thought about how I wanted to explain that.. but I thought about it a little, though I'm sure it'll be really confusing.

Here goes.. So, our Dads used to be together. I know that, but really, until you mentioned that it was for years and that we lived together, I had no idea. Well, like some idea, but it's vague. My father, Arthur Kirkland, died in a car accident when I was eleven. Also, I was in the car when he had the accident and I suffered a kinda severe head injury which caused me to lose my memories. I mean, like all of it. Seriously.. I couldn't even cry at my father's funeral, because I didn't even know him when we buried him. Since it's been a while though, some of my memories have come back, but most of it is really fuzzy and disorganized.

Anyway, about a month ago, I was looking through some old files and documents, just trying to see if I could inspire any recall because I've been really interested in getting my memory back more than ever recently. I found some letters from a Matthew Bonnefoy that were really old and out of curiosity, I was reading through them. Haha, they were pretty cute messages, but you were talking about going for a vacation at your papa's cabin and describing stuff in the letters, and it started to bring back a lot of things about that period in my life.

So.. in short, I really wanted to chat with you, just to see if we could talk about those years that we knew each other, to see if I could remember a bit more. I realize it probably sounds lame and tedious and you probably don't really remember all that much either.. But hey, if it's alright, that would be cool!'

Gently, Matthew shut his laptop and leaned his head into his hands. He had no clue what he could say in response. There were too many thoughts clouding his psyche for him to type even one sensible sentence.

After spending more than ten years in the confusion and emotional turmoil of occasionally being reminded of a boy who had apparently opted to simply forget about him, despite the significant amount of time they were together during their childhood.. It finally made sense.

But now that it made sense, it only hurt that much worse.

It only served to illuminate just how selfish Matthew had been, quietly hating the boy who had vanished from his life.

:: ::

His closet was the rigorously sorted type. Everything was in perfect order. Because of this, though Matthew had numerous storage containers of various mementos, crafted items and photographs, he was easily able to find the small, plastic, rectangular box that contained the specific items he sought.

Sliding it from the shelf, the young man carried it over to his bed and sat himself down with the box held delicately on his lap. It sat between his hands as though it were some dangerous, explosive device, as though it could tear the blonde male apart, should he not handle it with care.

Most likely, this was true.

Matthew took a deep breath to steady himself, then removed the lid from the container. It was akin to an open heart surgery, his fingers precise as they popped open the corners and peeled the cover away, setting it aside.

On the very top of the secret stash, there was a collection of packages containing photographs that had been developed at one photo processing center or another. Each package was labeled by year, and even sat atop one another in chronological order. Five years worth of memories, neatly tucked away, as though Matthew wished to forget them all along.

Matthew took his time looking over some of the pictures. The first few sets were laden with photographs of Matthew playing together with his stepbrother, seemingly candid shots that all captured the boys' childlike innocence and budding closeness. There were snapshots of both youngsters hanging merrily over Arthur's shoulders while the man looked at the camera with a sad, broken smile that appeared less and less morose with each passing year, as evident from the pictures. Matthew could remember his Papa's artistic pursuit of these memories, the man happily in new love and wanting to preserve these precious moments.

Francis would say, 'Give Arthur a big hug, and look at the camera!' in a sweet, purring tone, then Matthew and Alfred would do just as instructed, with Alfred usually shouting 'cheese!' with such intensity, it was like he expected it to make him the main subject of the camera's attention. (And if that didn't work, funny faces would do.)

There were also various photographs of Arthur, alone. In his pictures, he was doing seemingly nothing special, or at least Matthew had no idea what the images were meant to reflect. This was because his Papa had been overwhelmed in his affections for Arthur and followed the man with the camera, snapping any photo he likely thought would be adorable, and worth cherishing, since at the time, these pictures were of his beloved.

Then, as Matthew neared the last package of photos, he found that they shifted from lovingly erratic to consistent and planned, and completely expected. This was because Francis had begun to lose interest in the camera, and Arthur had picked it up for the sake of camping trip tradition.. He clearly had no knack for it though, and perhaps even found it a chore.

Matthew stopped. He set aside all of the packages of photographs but one; the latest of them. The young man bit his lip as he studied the paper wrapping of the last bunch of photographs. It wasn't nearly as beaten up as the others, because Matthew was sure he'd been the only one to even look at this particular set. This one, now, would be the most difficult for him to see.

The last set of photographs, from the last camping trip he, his father, Alfred and Arthur ever took together. None of the pictures had been snapped by Francis or Arthur, but instead by Matthew and Alfred, who had teamed together to insist that their fathers purchase a disposable camera for them, though the adults had come to the conclusion that it wasn't necessary.

The photos were, not so unusually, a mixture of erratic and planned. Candid shots were taken in secret, with no real knowledge of what lighting and angle made up a decent picture, and instead the images generally reflected what the two boys found 'cool' or 'funny' back then. A lot of this tended to be of Francis and Arthur at humourously unflattering moments, but there were also quite a few shots of insects crawling on leaves, flowers, views of the cabin Francis owned and the lake.

But, because Matthew had taken more responsibility for deciding what to take a picture of most of the time, most of the pictures were of Alfred. Alfred walking on the trail around the lake, Alfred fishing on the bridge, Alfred climbing a tree, Alfred hanging from a branch of said tree because he slipped, Alfred swimming, and splashing in the direction of the camera, Alfred making funny faces, Alfred eating all the granola bars.

Alfred, Alfred, Alfred.

This was because, though Matthew had been blind to the growing disenchantment between his father and a man who had become like a second father to him, he had been realizing how special and important his adopted brother had become to him, the intense affection that had formed in his sweet, innocent heart.

And then one morning, Arthur and Alfred got into the car, and drove away forever.

Which brought Matthew to the things he'd originally been seeking, the delicate collection of papers that laid beneath the packaged photos; Alfred's letters.

'_Dear Matthew_,' they began, the young boy who had written them not yet understanding that a letter heading was a rule that actually didn't really matter, '_I really miss you to, but I'm glad you wrote to me. Dad talked to Francis on the phone, and told me you would send me letters, and I was really happy. I checked the mail every day after I found out, until I got your letter._

_There are a few kids on the street where my new house is, but I told them that I had been living in Canada since I was five, and now they keep calling me 'Eskimo Boy', so I don't really wanna make friends with them. I got in trouble because one day this boy told me he was gonna teach me how to ride a bike since nobody uses dog sleds here, and I kicked him off his bike, and I think he crashed it and bent the wheel so now it doesn't work._

_I really wish you were here. I feel like I don't really have anybody to do stuff with now, and I just sit at home all day. It's so boring._

_So what have you been doing? Are you and your Dad still gonna go to the cabin in the summer? If you do, I wonder if my Dad will wanna go too. I think it would be fun, and I really miss going. Maybe you should talk to your Dad and tell him to call my Dad so they can talk about it. Then maybe I can say hi to you too._

_Anyway, I really don't have much else I can tell you about. Sorry if my letter is really boring. You'll probably write something really exciting back, and I'll be really happy when I get to read it. So, write back soon, okay?_

_Your friend, Alfred.'_

'Your friend,' he said. It was funny. Matthew was sure it was just the typical letter closing Alfred thought he was meant to use, but it was truly inappropriate, because they had been so much more than friends. For five years, Arthur and Francis insisted that they were brothers, and because they got along so well, they easily accepted this notion. But perhaps Alfred had fancied himself more of a 'bestest friend' than a brother. Who knew?

(Nobody-that's who. Not even Alfred knew anymore.)

Sighing, Matthew set the letters aside. He would read the rest of them later, or maybe he would save himself the tension and just skip to the last letter he ever received from Alfred.

:: ::

There was the sound of the garage door, the purr of an engine, the garage door again, a car door, the front door, and finally the coat closet being opened and shut; it was the unmistakable toll of Matthew's Papa finally returning from work. He'd been attending some fancy European fashion show that Matthew understood was of great importance, because it was necessary for he and his design team to have a good grasp on the likely trends for the upcoming season.

Matthew never truly understood his Papa's work, only that when he wasn't flying back and forth to this major city and that, he would be in Europe for any one of a vast list of events that were vital for his professional growth and business. Because of this, Matthew had grown up accustomed to never seeing his father.

The young Canadian had moved his laptop to the breakfast bar in his kitchen, and he was looking over the newest additions to his nature photography collection. He'd driven down a bit South from where he lived a few weeks earlier to attend a river festival, and to document both the festival and the event celebrated, the spawning of salmon. This did make things a bit odd for him when the house worker served him pan-seared salmon, but he didn't really expend too much thought on the matter.

"Salute, mon cher," Matthew's father greeted in his ever warm, velvet tone, a smile on his face as he strut into the kitchen, fashion books in one arm and bags of what Matthew could only assume were some newly design items in the other, "something smells positively delightful! You know how airplane food is a disgrace to all things culinary, so of course I'm famished."

Francis typically charged into a room, and started yammering to anybody who would listen, charm and bravado drawing attention to him like a hungry spiral, no matter what he went on about. He was so used to carrying himself like so and going on like his every word and action were demanding of praise, he simply couldn't disengage from his habits, even when he was only in the company of his own son. (Though his personal assistant happened to be silently tailing him like a shadow in this case, arms full of this and that.)

"Hey..," Matthew greeted, his tone as bereft of liveliness as his expression as he stared at his photos with disinterest and picked at his food in a similar manner.

As Matthew's father came to sit beside him, the house worker quickly dished out another plate for Francis, and laid out napkins and silverware, then matched the dish with an appropriate wine. "Something's troubling you," he stated with pure certainty, his voice as sweet and distinctly alluring as it would be when he spoke with a pretty man or woman, as this was simply his state of being.

"Yeah," Matthew agreed, not in the habit of lying to his father on the rare occasions that he did see him. However, he wasn't really certain how to speak with him either. Matthew had more experience with the house workers. "But it's nothing," came the young man's soft-spoken attempt at nonchalance, his melancholy spirits not disguised in the slightest.

"Nonsense!," Francis insisted, a comforting hand coming to rest on his son's shoulder, "What is it? Tell your Papa what's wrong."

"I finally managed to get in touch with Alfred Kirkland again. You remember him?," the young man explained as he continuously prodded his dinner with his fork, all while a salmon gaped from his computer screen, the fish's jaw opened wide, under-bite prominent as it struggled along an incredibly shallow area of river.

"Ah, oui, of course! How could I forget?," Francis responded, his tone jovial and clearly not understanding yet why this was upsetting his son so terribly. "Haven't you been looking for him for a long while?"

"Yeah," Matthew spoke up, nodding softly, "Well, he actually found me. I haven't spoken to him very much, but he did tell me that some pretty unfortunate things have happened since.. How long has it been?"

"You were only nine when Arthur and I split up, so..," the Frenchman paused, thinking, "around thirteen years, no? So, what happened?"

"Well, I don't really know in detail," Matthew began, "..he said that he lost his memory, and that Arthur died in a car accident."

"Arthur died?," Francis chimed in immediately, a tone of surprise to his voice that almost made it seem he didn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"Yeah, that's what Alfred said," Matthew explained, his own voice unusually detached, "when Alfred was eleven, so.. a while ago."

"...ahh, Je ne peux pas le croire! C'est horrible..." the older male muttered to himself, his blue eyes downcast and staring into nothing as he processed this disheartening news. He fell silent, though after a moment his hand lifted to take the glass of wine and he took a heartier swig from it than one usually did when simply enjoying their drink.

"..I'm sorry," Matthew uttered, watching his father in dismay, "I shouldn't have said anything."

"No," Francis sighed, "I'm glad you told me. At the very least, now I know he didn't just stop calling me because I'm the most terrible person he ever knew," the man confided in a mourning tone, though he disguised this with a chuckle.

"You're not terrible. You're just very busy," Matthew insisted, though his own listless tone reflected his lack of confidence in his ability to sooth his father in the wake of this news. He could see, though, that even despite the fact that things didn't quite work out between Arthur and his father, his father seemed to still hold some deep feelings of adoration for that man in his heart, and now hearing that he had died was proving to be terribly difficult.

It was difficult for Matthew as well, because though he hadn't heard from Arthur or Alfred in years, they had both been a part of his family for quite a long while. Those years, compared to every one that followed, had been some of his happiest and most content. He had two loving fathers in life who had both been so affectionate and never neglected to spend quality time with him.

Matthew could recall, though Arthur's cooking wasn't even mildly close to being as good as his own Papa's, the man was still dedicated to preparing breakfast almost every morning. He made sure to have it ready by the time Matthew and Alfred clambered from their bedrooms and into the kitchen, where they all dined at a round café-style table, in front of the big windows across from the kitchen counters.

The mornings were always so beautiful and sunny, and the smell of tea was warm and inviting. The boys would eat their breakfast across from the Englishman, and despite his proper attitude, he'd always smile and converse with the children as though they were grown, taking every discussion seriously and treating both boys with an uncanny kind of affectionate respect. (And he never once neglected Matthew or simply favored Alfred, despite the fact that Alfred was his biological child and Matthew was not.)

"Hey..," Matthew spoke up, withdrawing from his own reminiscence, and pulling his unusually silent father from his as well. Francis turned a somber countenance to his son, brushing back the curls that had fallen in his face. "I have all the pictures from our trips to the cabin. Maybe you'd like to look at them?," Matthew suggested.

Francis nodded to his son. "Oui," he uttered, his voice stripped of the usual fervor, "I would like that very much.. I'm not feeling much hunger any longer, though. I'll be in my room if you need me, mon cher."

At a pace that was oddly hasty, Francis slid from his chair, his glass of wine in hand, then he rushed from the kitchen and out of sight. Matthew watched in silence, wanting to call some words of comfort to his father before he disappeared for the night, but nothing particularly enlightening came to mind.

:: ::

Matthew closed out of the photo album, too weary to pretend he even relatively cared about fish at the moment. Seeking an escape from the turmoil of his thoughts, he accessed the internet as he leaned his face into his palm.

But, tonight Matthew's dilemma proved itself to be a persistent one. He absently went about checking the notifications on the first website that came up, only to find those sky-blue eyes staring at him from across the infinite realm of cyberspace, not allowing him to forget that he had still neglected to respond to Alfred's message.

Matthew was automatically directed to a photo album he had posted some while ago. It was of the cabin where the young Canadian still vacationed once every summer, the lake and the surrounding wilderness.

'_These pics are great! Actually, I really feel like I remember some of the places in these pictures! Do you have any more? I'd love to see them!'_

_Alfred Jones. 3 hours ago._

Matthew stared at the screen. He read over the comment several times, then several more, until his eyes were merely tracing the words and his mind had ventured elsewhere.

He wondered, was it really so hard for Alfred Jones? Was it really so difficult, living without his memories? Was it really so complicated for him to live, having forgotten his dead father and mother, and his long lost brother?

Some dark and vindictive part of Matthew resurfaced, full of resent and disappointment; what kind of fool did Alfred Jones have to be to actually want to remember all the things left behind, all the things that were lost to him? If he knew half of the loneliness and suffering and confusion that came with remembering, would he really pursue it?

But Matthew didn't know what he was thinking, why he was thinking these things. He didn't want to be angry for foolish reasons.

He wanted to repair what had been broken for so long; Alfred's life and his own.

'_The pictures I have other than the ones I've posted here aren't half as good. I do still visit the cabin every summer, though. Why don't you come?'_

_Matthew Bonnefoy. Moments ago. _

:: ::

TBC


	2. Mate Selection

::

2; The Nature of Mate Selection

::

* * *

::

Young people in love; it was such a beautiful, magical experience. Wild, rebellious, inexperienced, longing for something to make them feel alive, because in their short lives, they'd known so little.

Boy meets girl; it sounds so cliche, but it always seemed to be the infallible beginning. Or perhaps it was simply the beginning of one end, leading to others. But regardless of the blase nature of this beginning, it was like so; boy meets girl. He was newly out of school, seeking to make a life for himself, full of dreams and ambition, but empty of consideration for consequences, as many young people tend to be.

She was young success; already so near the top of her field despite her age. He was her subordinate, and at first, he saw no harm in using his own charming ways to win her favor. But young people are inexperienced and so apt to make mistakes that remain with them for the rest of their lives.

Unfamiliarity with one another inspires curiosity, which leads to infatuation, which ends with two individuals hopelessly in love, helplessly incapable of being torn apart, and too enamored to disengage from their collision course, until in a rush of heat and passion they become so entangled, pushing ever nearer that they unite as one.

It is a crash. A snap trap. A joyride where nobody's eyes are even on the road.

And then a few years later, she is suddenly unwilling to sacrifice her own success for the result of one joy ride, and a small boy with a mess of golden curls and glassy blue eyes filled with confusion is left standing with a single bag of possessions in the doorway of Francis Bonnefoy.

:: ::

'_L'Histoire d'Adèle H_'; Francis Bonnefoy had secluded himself in the privacy of his bedroom, where he decidedly began viewing '_L'Histoire d'Adèle H_'. with something of a renewed perspective.

It was the tale of beautiful young woman from Paris who, after settling in Canada, fell madly in love with a British soldier; however, the madness of her romance was ever more literal as her love was left unrequited and she fell into ruin.

But even as Adele Hugo wrote falsehoods to her parents, declaring that she would be marrying her beloved, Francis's attention had drifted to his own melancholy histoire d'amour, one that was regretfully laden with selfishness and hypocrisy.

Matthew's mother had been such a heavy smoker. She even smoked throughout her pregnancy, which, looking back on it, Francis supposed it was but a foreshadow to her abandonment of the child she carried, the first sign of her resolution to do as she pleased, without a care for anybody else. But, the young, naive man that Francis was at that time didn't quite see the entire picture. He was helplessly incapable of seeing his lover's potential flaws, viewing her through a foggy veil that was his fascination and adoration for her.

And then she said to him, 'Francis, my sweet darling, you're looking for a pretty little songbird. This is not me.' That was the only explanation she offered to him when she went on with her life, leaving behind the man she'd seemingly loved for a few sweet years, and the young child they created together.

He hadn't been fully sure what she meant at the time.

Even a full year after the two lovers parted ways, Francis still clung to the silliest memories, he still kept the lover who'd abandoned him close in ways that he knew were fatuous. Francis had become a heavy smoker (though, unlike her, he never put Matthew at risk because of this habit). He even smoked the same cigarettes as she; long, slender, elegant to behold between effeminate fingers. They looked perhaps too small in his masculine hands, and he always held them terribly gently, as though he could break them with ease, whereas she'd gestured in a way that was overly showy and vibrantly expressive, and the tiny cylinder between her fingers was simply a piece of her wardrobe, a tiny prop in her caricature.

Still, it kept the memories of those good times fresh in Francis's mind.

It served to remind him now, as '_L'Histoire d'Adèle_' played in the background and he busied his hands with a glass of wine and one of his past lover's cigarettes, that he'd been doing this precise thing when he met Arthur Kirkland.

With a heart that was still healing and a child who was still adjusting to living with his father and never seeing his mother, Francis had decided that they would take a father-son vacation, on a whim. The small, broken family packed their bags and flew away from France, away from Europe, to a place surrounded in wilderness, the slow, silent, beautiful serenity of nature meant to mend both father and son.

It was there, on a campground of tiny cabins spaced a short walk from one another, that Arthur Kirkland wandered into sight; he'd climbed a short set of brick stairs, his footsteps so quiet that he seemed to appear, like a phantom. (Or maybe it was because Francis had already had a few glasses of wine, and his senses just weren't as sharp as they could have been.)

Tired, blue eyes watched carefully as Arthur approached, observing this tiny man, the way he kept his arms tucked near to himself as if he expected the world outside his personal bubble to consume him. At first there was something contradictory about him; dressed a tad more nicely than what was typical on a trip to the woods, though his blonde hair was perhaps in greater disarray than any person presented themselves publically, even in the woods.

But as Arthur drew near, Francis found the answer to this riddle of a man, one that was readily displayed, or at least the Frenchman felt he'd discovered it with ease. It was in Arthur's eyes; the glimmer of life one found in the eyes of a happy person was absent, and all that was present was a dispirited haze, an abyss of woe that left Arthur's eyes as dull and weary as a wilted plant.

Even so, Arthur wore a mask of bitterness over his sorrow, and he maintained this as though it made him seem strong.

'Your son was down by the lake unattended. I've been looking after him for quite some time while he was playing with my son, but you really should take better care in looking after him. This may be a campground but there are dangerous wild animals in the surrounding areas and should someone wander onto the grounds, a small boy would probably be an easy target. You are listening, aren't you?'

That was the first thing Arthur ever said to Francis. The Frenchman looked the overprotective father in his midst from top to bottom then back to the top again, taking the final draw from his cigarette before discarding it, and at last responding.

'How funny. Fellow Europeans on a father-son vacation in the Canadian wilderness? Well then, since you looked after Matthew, I have no choice but to show you my gratitude. Why don't you and your son stay for dinner? I can cook up something delightful,' Francis had replied, confident in his pursuit, in his charm, already so sure that this Englishman was alone, aside from the small boy at his side. He was curious.

That curiosity led to infatuation, which ended with two individuals hopelessly in love, helplessly incapable of being torn apart, and too enamored to disengage from their collision course, until in a rush of heat and passion they became so entangled, pushing ever nearer that they united as one.

Francis was a discarded man. Arthur was a widower. They were two broken men, half of what they must have been, once upon a time. But, in this way, the two sought completion..and found it, for a time.

Until one day, Arthur said to Francis, '..you're never here anymore,' to which Francis responded, 'I have just been pursuing my career. I want to be successful, and I am so close.'

But this was not enough to convince Arthur to stay. He needed something more to console him, to keep him content. Francis convinced himself, when Arthur left him, that the man had been selfish, and needy, and impatient. It wasn't worth his time. He had his own desires to chase, achievements awaiting him. He couldn't be caged. He wasn't meant to be the one to simply sit on a nest and remain stationary. _He wasn't going to be Arthur's songbird._

But when Francis finally realized his mistakes, that he was no better than the mother of his child.. it was already far too late. He tried to call Arthur, wanting to apologize, wanting to make things right, wanting to try again... but nobody ever answered. Eventually the number was disconnected, and Francis just assumed Arthur didn't even wish to grant him a second chance.. so he gave up.

:: ::

Apart from the sound of the television, multiple voices all speaking in his father's home language, Matthew heard very little on the other side of his father's bedroom door. He gently knocked once, waiting to hear the sound of Francis's voice beckoning him to come in, though as he waited, it didn't come.

Matthew turned the knob and jarred the door slightly, just enough to speak up in the hopes of gaining his father's attention, not wanting to barge in. "Papa?," he called, peering through the crack to see the Frenchman nestled on his chaise longue, as apparent from the backside of the piece of furniture where Francis had rested his head, his soft golden curls freely flowing over the side.

At the sound of Matthew's voice, the Frenchman's arm quickly shot out to an end table positioned beside him and he stubbed out his cigarette in the decorative ashtray that was stationed there, fanning the smoke away before he answered. "Yes? Come in, Matthew!," he called to his son.

Slowly, somehow wary, the younger male entered his father's room, curious blue eyes observing the images on the television as he approached, then, as he came to stand beside the chaise longue, he firstly fanned at the remnants of the smokey haze before his gaze shifted to fall upon Francis.

The man had an emptied glass of wine in one hand, while his elbow was propped upon the armrest of the seat, and his head lolled into his open palm, his neck without the strength to hold it up. His hair fell against his shoulder and his lightly stubbled cheek was caressed by the evidence of mournful tears.

"This movie gets me every time," he said in a somber tone, his deep blue eyes glassy and reflective enough that Matthew could see the television screen within, though in his usual way, Francis painted over the sad, lonely mask of his countenance with a bittersweet smile and pretenses, "hoping Adele will find her happily ever after next to that dashing soldier, but knowing love will tear her apart and leave her all alone to deal with her illness.. It is so disheartening."

"It isn't the movie," Matthew stated in his usual soft-spoken tone, his own emotions more masterfully hidden beneath his calm exterior, "It's Arthur."

Francis just chuckled and set his empty glass aside. "Oui. Yes, it is."

"You don't have to make excuses for your emotions," Matthew explained as though his words were the truest ever spoken, "You loved him. You still love him. You never stopped, you just managed to busy your mind with your work."

Here, the Frenchman's chuckle escalated to an amused laugh, and he moved aside in his seat to make room for Matthew next to him, patting the cushion to beckon his child. With a sigh, Francis nodded his head, carefully watching his son as Matthew eyed the seat, as though estimating whether or not there was enough room. "You have such an intuition, mon cher. It's enviable. I wish I'd been so perceptive at your age."

Though he could see it was an ill fit, Matthew still plopped himself down next to his father, staring forward at the television. He was still listening to Francis, yet at the same time he was oddly bemused at how rusty his French had become, finding that he didn't understand all of what was being discussed in the film that continued to play.

"..and you are just the same," Francis muttered, "you still love that boy."

"What?," Matthew instantly replied, his head snapping to one side to give his father a surprised stare.

Again, Francis just chuckled, though this time it was genuine. "You wouldn't have pined for him so long if you weren't in love."

"I haven't been _pining_ for anybody!," Matthew insisted, though an embarrassed flush pinkened his cheeks. "I thought of him as my brother, just as I was told to do. And because he became my brother, I care for him as family."

"Don't try to pull a fast one on me, I know you better than that," came Francis's playfully insistent voice as he waggled his finger at his son in disapproval.

"I invited him to come with me to the cabin," Matthew confessed, "You could come too, and it would be kind of like old times," he offered, truly thinking that his papa could use a vacation. Or was it that he simply longed to spend some time with his normally busy father? Or perhaps he considered that the presence of one other person could break up any potential for awkward silences between Matthew and this other young man who was, more or less, a stranger- Matthew wasn't sure.

"No.. I'm afraid it wouldn't be at all like old times for me..," Francis spoke, his tone falling back into a smooth, soft, somber resonance, though he was quick to disguise this, "but don't trouble yourself with me! You go and have fun! This is your time. Your chance. I am happy for you!," he insisted.

There was a pause. Francis turned pensive blue eyes back to the screen, though he wasn't truly watching the movie now any more than he had been before Matthew disturbed him. "Just..," he began,"..Matthew, if you love that boy, don't you dare let him go before he knows it."

"Alright, alright," Matthew answered to his father's insistence before holding up the packages of photographs he'd been looking over earlier, "Here. I brought these for you to look at."

"Ah, merci, Matthew," the older man answered as he carefully took the paper-wrapped photos.

The father and son fell into a comfortable silence as Francis placed the packages on his lap, opening one and slowly looking over the images, chuckling every now and then. Matthew was certain he understood his father's emotional state in reminiscing, aware of how much happiness was contained within those little pieces of captured time, yet how much sadness there was in knowing these moments were in the past and could never be relived.

This awareness was passed between the two; neither of them could reclaim these moments, neither of them could touch or feel what was so far behind them. It became even more evident when Francis paused in flipping through the pictures, stopping on a photo he had snapped of Arthur years ago.

It appeared that Arthur had baked scones, as he commonly did, and in the photo Arthur was rather forcefully offering Francis, who was taking the photo, a scone, to which Francis was attempting to refuse at the same time as he was attempting to take Arthur's picture.

The man traced his thumb along the image, his touch following the line of sunlight pouring through the curtains over the kitchen window in the background, the sunlight that was highlighting Arthur from one side in an almost ethereal fashion.

"That's a really nice one," Matthew observed as he leaned his head slightly against his father's shoulder, resting his neck, "I'm pretty sure I inherited my skills from you."

Francis nodded to his son, blue eyes not shifting from the photograph as a bittersweet smile tugged at his lips.

"You should keep that one," Matthew suggested, to which, again, Francis but nodded.

Matthew continued to watch his father look through the photographs, from one set to the next, not interrupting him any further, and at some point the lull of their silence allowed him to fall asleep.

:: ::

Matthew awakened the next morning to find himself tucked under the plush blankets of his father's bed. Perplexed, he sat upright, attempting to recall how he ended up here, to no avail.

Francis appeared moments later from his ensuite, already dressed and ready for work. He wore a smirk of playful mockery as he addressed his grown son with his usual exuberance restored. "You still sleep as heavily as you did when you were just a little one, mon cher! Looks like you're not too old to have Papa carry you to bed after all, no?"

:: ::

Wandering downstairs, Matthew groaned sleepily to himself to find that his laptop had spent the night on the breakfast bar. He ambled over, yawning and rubbing at his tired eyes, always having such a difficult time with feeling awake in the morning.

The sound of Matthew's yawning and plopping down on the barstool easily alerted the house worker. He had already been busily preparing Francis's breakfast, but was ever watchful over Matthew, as most of the house workers had lived here for years and had tended to Matthew, even when he was but a child; in this way, they were very much like a family, familiar to him, though he had always remained distant.

The man came over to stand near Matthew's side, inquiring about the boy's appetite, and if he would like something to drink. He seemed particularly worried, since Matthew hadn't eaten much of his dinner the previous evening.

"Don't worry about me," Matthew insisted in a soft, sleepy voice, combing his fingers through his messy bedhead, "just give me whatever my Papa asked for, with coffee and a small glass of orange juice."

As the house worker made haste back to working on breakfast, his shoes clicking all the way, Matthew opened up his laptop, which instantly flickered to life, bringing up the last page Matthew had accessed. There, the young Canadian found that Alfred had already responded to his invitation.

'_Wow, man, are you serious? I mean, you knew me once, but I'm like a total stranger now! Are you sure? It would be seriously cool and great and awesome, though, if you mean it. I think it would really help! I don't even know what to say! I'm kinda overwhelmed! Except yeah, duh, I'd love to!'_

_Alfred Jones. 13 hours ago._

Something strange happened as Matthew read over the comment; he smiled. A genuine smile had become a sight so rare, as such a thing hardly ever broke his exterior walls, even when he was given reason. Smiles were something he did from time to time, just to give himself a friendly and unassuming appearance, a mask he wore, just like his father.

But reading over Alfred's words, Matthew couldn't help but observe what a spastic little dork it was that he'd been addressing, one just like that sweet, charming boy he used to know.

Nothing had really changed; that gave Matthew reason for happiness.

:: ::

TBC

:: ::


End file.
